


tender

by threadoflife



Series: hannibal ficlets [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Fluff and Angst, Hannibal Loves Will, M/M, Shifting perspective, Tenderness, Will Loves Hannibal, they are so disgusting i fucking hate them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 15:26:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8850244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threadoflife/pseuds/threadoflife
Summary: The moment before they fall, there is a tenderness between them that aches.





	

**Author's Note:**

> idk what this is. saw this video and died (http://wssh-watson.tumblr.com/post/154478334022/vulcanplomeeksoup-hannibal-313-kiss-alts-scene) and this came out and I fucking hate the way they sway towards one another as if in a dance
> 
> their staring
> 
> their mouths
> 
> I FUCKING HATE THEM

They stare at one another, intensely. It turns into gazing, long seconds of it, in which they breathe with their mouths not far apart; breathing the same air, and though sometimes one of them wobbles a little because of the pain, they just keep standing there as if they’re frozen or trapped in the magnetic pull of each other. Eyes go back to eyes, holding, locking, staring. Just staring. As if they can't quite believe they're here, together, like this, after everything.

Hannibal’s brows are just somewhat knitted, and his mouth is perpetually open as if he just can’t pull enough air inside him now that Will is so close to him sharing the same air, and maybe he’s never cherished life before to such an incredible extent–-even while he was killing, yes, even then.

Will keeps being drawn in, drawing himself in, pushing himself, because it’s no longer about avoiding or being manipulated or confused: this is about _being_ now, this is about existing and living and feeling and being himself as he is, as he can only be with Hannibal, and the himself he is wants to be and will be sways forward, keeps blinking, keeps holding on to Hannibal, never strays far from him because that‘s who he is, that’s him, right here in front of him.

And it isn’t hard at all. When his thumb begins moving on Hannibal’s shoulder, brushing over his bloodied shirt, that’s synchronicity. That’s like breathing; a pull in, a push out, a natural rhythm his body seems to have been missing forever and has just now found again.

When Hannibal’s eyebrows draw tighter together–-when his next breath turns tremulous–-when he leans in just so, just _so_ –-when he speaks in low, hushed tones about “both of us”–-when he keeps his hands from Will’s body but breathes as if Will’s closeness, Will's very presence, opens the wounds on his body even more–-

then Will lets his hand cup that solid shoulder (thumb brushing over the shirt again, convulsively, convulsively: he can’t stop) and he lets his body seek the heat of Hannibal’s, he lets his cheek find Hannibal’s clavicle–-his throat–-his jaw–-his neck–-

and that’s where he buries his face in. That’s where he pushes his nose into, right against Hannibal’s shirt, breathing him in. The bloodied fabric is a mix of scratchy and sticky against his cheek. A slight laceration in his lip makes his mouth catch on Hannibal’s shirt, tearing it open a bit more, and the blood on Will’s tongue is life. He’s never felt more alive like this. He’s never felt more wanted. He’s never felt saner.

He’s never felt safer.

Hannibal’s breath leaves him in a rush, like an exhalation made in pain, or maybe supplication. It is the single most blasphemous moment of his life in all he’s done so far: when he allows his eyes to close, his face to tilt upward like all the muscles in his neck have forsaken him, going pliant; when his lips quiver a bit, as if in a prayer he doesn’t have the words for; when he turns his head so slightly, so slightly, so hesitantly, to lay his cheek on Will's head in a movement so reverent–-that’s a revelation. that moment, right there, is a revelation. It’s the culmination of Hannibal’s life, of all his work.

Because Will is here, and he’s touching him. Will, who has said, “It’s beautiful.”; Will, who has finally shed all his layers and has shown himself to Hannibal in his true light, the bloody halo around his head shining brighter than ever before.

Here is Will, with Hannibal, touching him, holding onto him, with all his potential unleashed, and, Christ, Will is cherished–-revered–- _hallowed_ –-and this is the revelation Hannibal has always sought for.

He allows his left hand to cling to Will, fisting Will’s shirt. His right hand falters–-it shifts toward’s Will’s waist, but–-Hannibal is scared, he is so scared--his hand is shaking his entire forearm his shaking as it moves moves moves towards–-away–-towards–-

Will’s breath is warm against his shoulder. Will is in his arms.

Will is here.

Finally, Hannibal’s right hand closes in Will’s shirt: softly, slowly, gently. His fingers scrabble a little, as if they’re weak, have no strength left to clutch. They shake. They are warm from Will’s body underneath them. They almost don't touch Will. They cradle, cherishing, revering.

Overcome, Hannibal breathes.

He turns his head.

His cheek brushes Will’s hair.

His nose brushes Will’s hair.

His lips

br

 

when they fall, he almost does not expect it.


End file.
